


Mea Culpa

by softmoth



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicide Attempt, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 08:22:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8242714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softmoth/pseuds/softmoth
Summary: There's silence, nothing but the opaque, black emptiness of the desert night, until Boone suddenly hears footsteps again. Multiple footstep. The thunderous roar of many footsteps, all sprinting foreword. And then, he was surrounded entirely by red and silver, the booted legs of legionaries circling around him like prison bars.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A very old [kink meme response](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/4237.html?thread=8956045#t8956045), requests were Boone overpowered by Vulpes with non-con and whipping. No longer on the meme but reposting here. Apologizes for any weird formatting issues, copy and pasted directly from the former fill. 
> 
> Feedback/concrit is adored.

Craig Boone checked and double checked his pack. Rations. Ammo. A 9mm pistol, snagged from the courier's weapon rack earlier that night. His Gobi Campaign scout rifle gifted to him by the courier, fit with the reticule salvaged from his own hunting rifle. Improved with a brand new suppressor to muffle the noise of the gun's fire. Polished. Ready.

He had to be quieter than silent if he wanted to take out as many legion bastards as possible.

He paused, looking at everything laid out before him- this was it. This was the culmination of his life. The sum of his sins. His own retribution. He packs everything up again, slinging the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

Boone looks around the Lucky 38. It's quiet, calm. All its occupants still deeply sleeping at such an early hour. He feels like an asshole for leaving this way. But fuck it. The courier would understand. He'd watched her gun down that Benny guy in his own goddamn casino, shooting his bodyguards point blank and rifling through the poor sap's ridiculous checkered coat for some poker chip before his body was even cold. The courier understood revenge, Boone was sure of it. She would understand.

He moves quietly through the hallway, stepping lightly as to avoid alerting the others of his sudden departure. Boone passes the kitchen and he stops, hesitates, before creeping his way into the room and picking up a discarded combat knife laying on the countertop, next to a small pile of Agave fruit. He turns the knife in his hands, regarding the dull, rusty blade. It had been a long time since this particular knife had seen any combat- retired to a lackluster life of cutting fruit and meat.

Boone tests his finger against it, sliding the pad of his thumb across its edge. His skin slices in a needle thin gash, slowly welling with blood. Sharp enough. It would have to do.

He shoves the knife into his belt, blade hooking through one of the loops. It's not ideal, but he doesn't have anything close range. Not that he planned on getting anywhere close to those kidnapping scumbags, but you know never. Better safe than sorry.

Boone winces at the mechanical clamoring of the elevator, its ancient doors thundering together with a metal clap as they open and then close again behind him. He jams his thumb into the main floor button and prays that the elevator didn't wake anyone.

He's relieved when the elevator remains open behind him as he exists into the darkened casino floor. It means that nobody called it back up again, so at the very least, nobody was trying to follow. It was a good sign.

Boone passes the deactivated Securitrons as he exits, their grayed out screens faceless and eerie. The courier shuts them off at night. She doesn't need them standing guard because she puts the entire 38 on lock down before she retires for the night- seals off all the entrances and exits tighter than a Vault. House had a lot of locking mechanisms. Guess he was paranoid. So was the courier. But after all the shit she did (most of which Boone had accompanied her to do), he figured she had well enough reason to be.

Boone hops over the edge of the old counters, booting up a hidden computer terminal to the right of the exit doors. He thinks for a moment, then punches in the override code he saw the courier program when she first set up the locks. He had made a point to discretely watch as her nimble fingers keyed in the code, burning the series of numbers into his brain. He figured it might come in handy sometime. Apparently, he had been right.

He hits enter and the screen beeps in confirmation, before the exiting doors slide open. He exits, closing them behind him, and begins to make his way to the desert, leaving the strip. With all its flashing lights and drunken patrons ambling about, Freeside never really slept. Nobody noticed him leaving, anyway. Pack in hand, and jaw set determinedly, Boone made his way to the Mojave desert. He wasn't sure which way to go, already used to relying on the courier's pipboy for direction, but he supposed it didn't matter which way he walked. They would find him. They always did.

-

He sets up camp on a mountainous overpass, a small stretch of land yawning over the curving road of the I-15. Higher ground was better, he could easily see those that passed by below. It was growing dark, and the fading city buildings of New Vegas were the only bits of light on the horizon, the sun setting and disappearing long ago. The moon is bright and full, and Boone decides to lay out behind a semi-large boulder sitting conveniently near the edge of the overpass. He drops his pack to his side and flops down on his stomach, pulling out his rifle and aiming down towards the desert road. He adjusts his sight through the scope, scanning the area. Nothing. Fine. He can wait.

Finally, in the corner of his vision, he detects movement. He jerks his scope in the direction of what he saw. Bingo. A legionary. He huffs his breath and steadies his hands, aiming directly at the back of the legionary's skull.

Boone breaths in, and pulls the trigger. There's a brief, zipping noise of muffled gunshot and the legionary drops before he can even turn around. Boone exhales. He pulls away from his gun, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He looks through the scope again, narrowing in on the limp body. A brown cloth hood covers its bloody head. An explorer, then. There's probably more of them. Explorers rarely scout out desert alone. He reloads, and waits. They have to be somewhere.

He waits, and waits, and as the night progresses it gets darker and darker. He's tempted to give up, as it's almost too dark to see- he can barely make out anything amongst the various shades of grey and black. But still, he waits.

Then, suddenly, he hears footsteps behind him- the soft patter of careful feet aiming to remain undetected. Shit.

Boone flips over on to his back, tossing his rifle to the side and making a grab for his pack, pulling out the smaller pistol. Rising to his knees, he holds the weapon straight out in front of him. As though he could see anything in this fucking darkness.

"I know you're there," he speaks into the night. "I can hear you, you cowardly sonofabitch." He cocks the gun, mostly for show. "Come out. You're mine."

He has no idea where the legionary is, or what he's even armed with. If he's even alone. Boone's playing with fire, and he doesn't care. Not like he has anything left to lose.

He holds his breath and listens, straining to hear. There's silence, nothing but the opaque, black emptiness of the desert night, until Boone suddenly hears footsteps again. Multiple footsteps. The thunderous roar of many footsteps, all sprinting foreword. And then, he was surrounded entirely by red and silver, the booted legs of legionaries circling around him like prison bars.

Fuck. It was an ambush. And he fell for it, laid right there waiting for it like a sitting fucking duck.

Boone whips his head around, surveying the men around him. Sizing them up. He begins contemplating how many he could take out before they kill him. He knew they'd shot him before he even stood up, so he'd have to be quick. He could blow the first one's kneecaps out, shoot the second one in the stomach, grab for the knife at his belt and maybe stab at the third one's side, maybe, if he could reach far enough-

"Already on your knees, degenerate? Good. You save me the trouble."

Boone's reveries were disrupted by the disturbingly familiar voice, taunting him. No. Shit. Not him. Anyone else but him.

The tight circle of legionaries parts, and Boone is illuminated by the flickering glow of a burning, handheld torch. For the first time he can see just how many legionaries surround him. Some are scouts, but most are dressed in the outfits of recruits or assassins, further confirming that this was truly a premeditated ambush. They had arrived prepared for a fight.

The firelight bounces off of the metal belts and plates of their armor, casting odd shadows about Boone's line of sight, and above those shadows stretches the elongated silhouette of a fox's head, turning to face Boone directly.

Boone looks up, up over the dark brown leather boots, up over the red and silver buckles and straps of his armor, up, up, up, and then he is staring squarely into the pale, grinning face of Vulpes Inculta. Wide, startled eyes meet smug, brown slits and Vulpes' grin grows wider with recognition.

"That beret- so, it's you! The NCR nuisance that's been picking off my men. A First Recon Marksman... interesting. One of New California's finest, squatting amongst rocks in the dark. Like an animal."

Boone raises his gun and points it upward, straight between the other man's eyes. "You're the only animal here, and soon you'll be as dead as that fucking dog on your head."

Vulpes does not break eye contact and his grin does not falter in the face of the pistol. "Will I? Look around you, Marksman." Vulpes gestures with his torch to the surrounding legionaries, all with their own weapons raised. "To shoot me would be suicide. No, I don't think you'd do that. I think you're going to lower your gun, and let us escort you back to the fort. If you cooperate now, perhaps we can make it back before sunrise. I think you'll find this a much more... satisfactory option."

"To hell with what you think," Boone interrupts. He wouldn't let them take him back to the fort, make him a slave, sell him off like cattle, like Carla, like his unborn child he never even knew. He wouldn't give them that satisfaction.

Boone lowers his weapon only to quickly shove the barrel into his mouth, pointing the muzzle at his upper palette. He closes his eyes and squeezes the trigger, bracing for the impact of bullet into brain.

Nothing. The hollow clicking of an empty chamber. He hadn't checked, hadn't loaded the gun, hadn't noticed the telltale lightness of its weight in his panic.

God damn it.

God fucking damn it.

Boone yells out in anguish, a growl ripping from his throat as he mindlessly pulls the trigger again and again, biting down on the pistol, knowing it won't do anything.

A single hand reaches down and wretches the gun from his mouth, and Boone allows it to be pulled from his grasp. It's useless. It's empty. He fucked up, big time.

"Hmm," Vulpes hums. "Such tenacity. . Perhaps you will fight in the arena? Unless you are sold, that is- you will fetch a fine price, assuming Caesar does not order you crucified once he is informed of your antics."

Suddenly, Boone remembers the rusty combat knife at his belt. He won't live through it, he knows that much as his fingers slowly, slowly close around the weapon's handle. He probably won't even kill any of them before he's shot. But it's better than nothing. Better than whatever disgrace was waiting for him at the fort.

Better to die fighting than on his knees.

Just as he moves to unsheathe the knife fully, contemplating where the best stab would be, Vulpes Inculta begins to chuckle.

"You intend to kill me with that flimsy weapon, Marksman? You think that I cannot see it?"

Vulpes bends down on one knee, now eye level with Boone. He lowers the torch between them, illuminating Boone's face. Analyzing him. Staring at him like property, with the expression of a man who just found an unattended bag of bottlecaps and is contemplating how exactly to spend them.

"You think you're clever, Marksman. Maybe you are-" Vulpes states, his voice a low murmur. Boone sneers, baring his teeth, and Vulpes' eyes narrow.

"-but I am clever as well."

Vulpes tilts his face forward, gaze locking with Boone's as he raises the torch to his lips and blows.

And, once again, Boone is completely engulfed in darkness.

-

Boon lunges out to blindly stab, and his knife connects with nothing but air. He starts to scramble to his feet but is tackled from behind and forced, face-first, into the ground. The dead weight of another body holds him down, and he hears the legionaries spur into action- one of the scouts kneels at his feet, binding a length of rope between his ankles. Another grabs at his wrists, stretched up and over his head against the ground, and tries to pry away the rusted knife. They wrestle over it for a moment, Boone refusing to relinquish his grip, but a third legionary positions his foot over Boone's tightly coiled fist and steps down. He stomps his wrist into the ground, applying more and more pressure, and with a frustrated yelp Boone loses his grip.

The combat knife is yanked away quickly.

He thinks his wrist might be fractured.

Another length of cord is wrapped around and around his hands, crossing the swollen wrist over the other and binding them in place, and Boone is immobilized. Unarmed. Restrained. He tests the knots of the cord halfheartedly when the legionaries move away, and as the knot pulls painfully against his injured wrist there is no give. Of course there isn't.

Boone is hauled roughly to his feet by his shoulders, forced to stand up straight again, and Vulpes Inculta is once more before him. He is wearing a triumphant smile, reminiscent of the self-satisfied smirk he wore after their first meeting at Nipton.

Boone remembers that he had been the first to spot the smoke. Then the courier had heard the gunfire. But by the time they had arrived, it had been too late, and the group of frumentarii had narrowly escaped the pair, taunting while retreating. They were profligates. Degenerates. Too weak and too slow to protect even their most corrupted.

Boone wishes he would have shot Vulpes then, but it can't be helped now.

In his hands, Vulpes holds a loop of heavy rope in a knot shaped like a noose, and he places it over Boone's head. It settles heavy around his neck. The implications are un-ignorable. He is a dead man walking.

"Now come along," Vulpes teases, yanking on the end of the rope he held in his hands like a leash. "Follow. Like a good NCR dog."

Maybe the knot really is a noose, Boone considers, and he jerks his neck backwards in the opposite direction of Vulpes' tugging. Maybe he can suffocate himself. Snap his own neck.

The rope does not give, and the knot holds strong at the base of his throat. "You gotta be fucking kidding me," Boone grunts. Death was clearly taunting him that night, dangling reprieve in front of his face, only to continually snatch it away.

Vulpes laughs when he realizes what Boone is trying to do. "Most assuredly not," he answers, and damn him. Damn his laughing. Like this whole thing is one big fucking joke.

"Tell me, Marksman, is overt self destruction imprinted into all recon soldiers....or are you a special case?"

"Go to hell," Boone counters, choking slightly on his words as Vulpes begins to lead him along. The bindings on his feet act as makeshift shackles, restricting his range of motion and forcing him into an awkward shuffle.

Legionaries moved on either sides of him, weapons still drawn save a few holding newly lit torches, tension still plainly written across their features despite his thorough incapacitation. Their obvious apprehension fills him with a small, fleeting pride. But only for a moment. Only until he looks down at his bound hands hanging limply in front of him, at the rope biting into the bloated flesh of his injured wrist, already swollen to twice it's normal size, and he remembers just exactly how hopeless his situation is.

-

They eventually came upon a ramshackle camp in the middle of the desert. The camp itself had been constructed (and, by extension, occupied) by a handful of fiends, and Vulpes had held Boone's leash tightly and hung back as he waved his right arm in the air, silently gesturing for the legionaries to push forward. They blow out their torches and move in to attack, swiftly clearing the area out. Some whoop out war cries as they charge into battle.

Boone watches. It isn't a fair fight, the fiends too hopped up on whiskey and Psycho to even aim their weapons straight, let alone fight off an entire raiding party. They are killed off fairly quickly, and brutally, throats slit and heads severed, barely giving them time to scream. When the last of them are dealt with, the legionaries settle in to the camp and begin to retire for the night.

Vulpes drags Boone to the very edge of the camp and gestures towards a makeshift bedroll on the ground, tan colored padding stained copper with blood where it's previous occupant had been pulled out of it and hastily murdered. "You may sleep, if you like," Vulpes says, motioning his head towards the bedroll. For the first time that night, Boone has to repress a laugh.

"I'll kill you as soon as you close your eyes," he states matter-of-factly.

Vulpes smiles at him, aforementioned eyes narrowing. "It is a good thing, then, that I do not plan on closing them."

Boone stares at him, jaw set, so he continues.

"My men need sleep," Vulpes states simply. He stares off just beyond the edge of the camp, into the Mojave's darkened horizon."I do not."

He looks back to Boone. "I am offering you the option, you may take it or leave it. I will keep watch. And if I think that you are planning anything unscrupulous, I will kill you without hesitation."

"Just kill me now," Boone replies, voice pathetically tired even to his own ears. Defeated. "No point in drawing it out, just do it. I'd do it my goddamn self if you'd let me."

Vulpes chuckles. "There is no doubt in my mind that you would."

Boone makes no move to lay down on the bedroll so Vulpes continues to address him, his tone casual. Conversational. As if the two of them were having a pleasant little chat.

"Do not misunderstand me," he asserts. "It is somewhat admirable. As frumentarii, we are trained to end our own lives when captured, as interrogation is most certainly inevitable. It is better to take Caesar's knowledge to the grave than risk its exposure."

Boone knows that Vulpes is baiting him. Drawing parallels where they don't exist. He's nothing like them, an NCR soldier and a legionary are worlds apart. But he guesses that's what Vulpes wants him to argue, and he really isn't in the mood for some big fucking philosophical discussion at the moment. So he doesn't bother.

"...eat shit, Inculta."

He's surprised to see the Frumentarius' carefully schooled expression darken into anger, but before he can contemplate on it for too long he feels himself being struck across the face, hard enough to crack his jaw and leave his head spinning. He groans in pain, clenching his teeth, and he is then shoved roughly to the ground.

Vulpes pushes him on to his stomach and leans his full weight on to Boone's back, reaching around underneath him. He feels his belt being undone, yanked roughly from the loops of his pants. His shirt is pulled up, bunched under his armpits to expose the entirety of his back to the chilly desert air.

"You will show respect to me," Vulpes commands, and the sharp smack of Boone's own belt, doubled over in the frumentarius' fist, echoes loudly in the night's silence as it connects with his upper shoulders.

"Like hell I will," Boone grounds out. To his credit he does not flinch, not even when Vulpes raises the belt and hits him again and again. And again.

Boone jerks slightly with each crack of the belt. Each strike of the leather against his skin hurts somehow more and less than the one before it. More, because Vulpes begins to double over his blows, whipping Boone soundly over his shoulders and back, overlapping. Less, because Boone feels himself unconsciously begin to anticipate the belt's rhythm, allowing each fresh smack of pain to burst and blossom across his skin, riding out each slap as it occurred, no longer feeling each individual sting as they blend together into a single, solid ache. What else could he do? Tied up, punished. Like a disrespectful child. His cheeks burn with anger and humiliation, and it feels like failure.

Every moment Boone didn't fight back, it felt like failure.

Vulpes finally ceases his whipping, dropping the belt off to the side.

Boone can't see the other man, face still pressed into the ground, but he can hear him panting slightly from the exertion. Or at least, what he assumed was exertion... until he feels the distinct, tell-tale press of an erection just against the back of his thigh, where the frumentarius sat.

He opens his mouth to mock Inculta, call him a pervert, a sick fuck, but before he can form the syllables he clenches to keep himself from making pained noises as Vulpes trails his fingers along Boone's muscled back, tracing over the fresh mottling of pink and white stripes. And somehow, the implicit fondness of the action is more humiliating than the whipping and the hard-on combined.

"What is your name?" Vulpes asks, voice husky. Boone does not answer.

Nails dig sharply into his still sore shoulders- raking at his burning skin- and Boone arches away despite himself, hissing in pain.

"What is your name?" Vulpes asks again and he presses down harder and, jesus, Boone just wants it all to stop. "Craig," he gasps out, and immediately hates himself for it. Hates himself for giving in. "Craig Boone."

"Boone." Vulpes rolls the name around in his mouth. "Boon- a blessing from the gods. Tell me, _Craig_. Are you a boon to me?"

"You're insane," Boone says. For moment he hears nothing, save Vulpes' harsh breathing and the erratic beating of his own heart. Then he feels hands at his back again, pulling at the waist of his beltless pants. Pulling them easily down- his underwear with them. Boone tries to flip himself around, squeezing his legs together instinctively. "What the fuck are y-"

He's shoved back down and a hand grips solidly at his neck, holding his face into the dirt. "This will be much easier, Boone," Vulpes growls, "if you do not move so much."

Vulpes hooks a finger inside of Boone, spit-slicked and prying, and Boone feels his brain short circuit. He sees red.

"Get the fuck off of me!" He yells, trying to kick his bound legs backwards at the other man.

Vulpes moves quickly, forcing Boone's legs down and sitting on his knees. Boone struggles and squirms, but he can't throw the other man off. His arms are trapped, bound and helplessly pinned at his front beneath his own weight, and he can do little more than writhe and swear, spitting curses at Vulpes. "I'm going to fucking kill you," he seethes. "I'm gonna rip your goddamn lungs out and make you eat them, you son of a bitch."

Vulpes readjusts himself, grabbing Boone's bare ass and spreading him apart, spitting directly on his clenching entrance. "Creative," he replies, roughly forcing his index and middle finger inside of Boone. Boone grits his teeth as Vulpes scissors them apart, stretching him painfully. "Had our circumstances been different, perhaps you could have served alongside me. The Son of Mars revels in such visionary brutality." His fingers are slow, meticulous, and thoroughly lascivious.

"Just shut up," Boone grunts. "Stop talking." He does not imagine the sharp stab he feels of nails digging inside of him, scraping painfully as Vulpes withdraws his fingers.

"As you wish," he patronizingly answers.

Boone feels the blunt, warm flesh of Vulpes breaching him and his leg muscles strain as he tries desperately to force them closed. Force Vulpes out. But Vulpes holds his legs firmly open, spread as wide as the bindings would allow, and Boone feels disgusting, uncomfortably slack and loose.

Vulpes huffs out a breath as Boone bears down on him, and it is disturbingly close to a noise of pleasure. He presses open mouthed kisses to the back of Boone's neck, and the sniper feels bile rise in the back of his throat, burning and acidic. He groans in pain as the frumentarius' hips stutter, thrusting erratically. His skin feels hot and too tight, and when Vulpes nearly purrs into Boone's ear, thrusting against him a final time, Boone can't help but cry out. He feels an uncomfortable warmth inside of him, slick and viscous and leaking down his thighs as Vulpes excruciatingly withdraws.

The legionary stands and clears his throat, adjusting his uniform as though there was nothing abnormal about what had just transpired. As if Boone wasn't laying on the ground, limp, another man's cum dripping from his body.

"We will leave with the sunrise," Vulpes says. "Sleep, or do not sleep. As I said- it makes little difference to me."

He briefly disappears from Boone's line of vision. When he returns, he is dragging with him a decrepit, ruined chair retrieved from elsewhere in the camp. The metal, rusted legs scrape twin lines in the sandy dirt as he drags it to just in front of Boone's debilitated form. He sits down into the chair, withdrawing the ripper at his side and laying it across the lap of his wrinkled uniform. A unspoken warning.

Fuck him. Boone doesn't care anymore. Had he even an ounce of energy left, he might have tried provoking the frumentarius. Might have pulled himself to his feet and shouldered Inculta in the face. Maybe he'd break his nose. Instigate a fight. Then maybe he'd run chest-first into the other man's ripper, let the shiny spinning teeth tear into his stomach. Maybe he'd let himself bleed out. Let his intestines sluice out of his core, red, like a knife through a Legion banner.

Maybe. Maybe he might have done any of those things, before. But now, face on the ground, arms and legs bound, exposed and sore and practically numb with the throbbing ache of lashing and violation, Boone can't imagine ever moving again.

Day would break, and he would have to, eventually. He knew that. Even if it mean that the legionaries had to drag him by the neck down to Cottonwood Cove- they would find a way to take him there. He would have to move.

But for now Boone simply laid still on the ground, body curled into a protective "C", pulling his knees to his chest. Breathing. Slowly, like aiming through a scope. Inhale. Tense. Then exhale. All the while being tracked by shifting brown eyes, as keen and fixated as a fox tracking its prey. Waiting for the slightest provocation.

Boone couldn't give it to him. Maybe in the morning he could fight. But that night he laid still as a fawn, squeezing his eyes shut tightly and breathing. Inhale. Tense. Exhale. And he did not move again until morning.

-

True to his word, Vulpes rallies the troops at daybreak- the brilliant yellow sun barely peeking over the edge of the desert before they were on their way again. He had unceremoniously yanked Boone's clothing back in place before dragging him along, hauling the sniper to his feet without a word and straightening his shirt and pants. Boone wasn't sure if it was guilt or shame that inspired the frumentarius' actions, but he didn't care either way. He hated the man. He hated him as utterly as he hated the legion, and found little consolation in anything other than imagining how it would feel to look down at Vulpes Inculta's sneering face over the barrel of his rifle.

His rifle, that he might never see again.

The group treks their way over the desert roads and around the mountainsides, following a winding path that carved through great walls of rock and stone. East. Towards Cottonwood Cove. Boone recognizes the route, knows the way by heart, having traveled it before in what feels like another lifetime. And he knows that each awkward, shuffled half-step brings him closer and closer to the end he's been chasing for so incredibly long. And he decides then that despite it all, he is finally ready. He can focus on nothing else.

Bring it on, Caesar, he thinks to himself as the riverside camp rises into view. A wooden platform bearing the mark of the bull lolls afloat in the water, docked and waiting to ferry him to his death. Vulpes watches intently as they approach, grinning at him lecherously behind the obscuring black glasses of his vexillarius helmet, and Boone feels a rush of hatred boil anew in his veins. He is ready.

Come Caesar, come hell, he has nothing left to lose. Bring it on.

**Author's Note:**

> ([tumblr](http://soft-moth.tumblr.com/) for messages/prompts/friends ♥)


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